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Copyright, 1892, 

By FRANCIS J. SCHULTE. 

ALL EIGHTS RESERVED. 


o"o !• 

U "j 















7 












































































































LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS—Continued. 


41 


43 


43 


45 


45 


49 


51 


39 

Entrance to the Female Department 

The Limited Express from New York City 
He Played the Cornet - 

The Inventor of the Bath- Wire Fence 
The Umbrella-Borrower 
The Selfish Husband 

The Tailors - 
The Mashers 

The Fate of a Dentist 

Having Fun with a Policeman 
The Lawyers - 
A Ball Game - 

Key-hole Reporters - 

The Lazy Man at Work - 
The Editors 

A Fete Remarks on the Labor Question 
The Front-Row Baldheads 

The Man ivho Eats Pie with a Knife 


51 


53 


DO 


57 


57 


59 


61 


63 


65 


8 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS—Concluded. 


The Amateur Photographers 
The Tramps - 
The Society Bore - 

The Boodle Aldermen .... 

Board of Trade Gamblers .... 

Bunko-Stccrers and Confidence Men - - - 77 

The Poker Players ------ 79 

Defaulting Bank Cashiers ----- 81 

The Men tcho Go Fishing on Sunday - - 83 

The Quack Doctors ------ 83 

Ice-Dealers and Cold , Crabbed Business Men 87 

The Kentucky Colonels ------ 89 

The Monopolists ------- 91 

They Failed to Practice tvliat they Preached 93 

The Pugilists -------- 93 

The Chronic Kickers - -- -- --97 

Owe of Mr. Satan's Bouncers - - - - - 99 

17;e Journey's End ------- 100 


09 


73 


73 


75 


G7 


9 


A WORD ABOUT MR. DANTE, OF ITALY. 

Mr. Dante, of Florence, Italy, was the first man to make a 
really thorough exploration of Hell. That was several hundred 
years ago. Even now there are to be seen down there the famous 
gentleman’s foot-prints. I was also shown a petrified cheese-sand¬ 
wich which is thought to have dropped out of his lunch-bag. 

Dante had a guide, one Virgil, who had a reputation in those 
days of being a pretty good all-around poet, though it is evident he 
didn’t amount to much as a guide. The tourist from Florence 
was unfortunate in having no less than seventeen fits on this 
memorable occasion. The hardships he endured were fearful to 
contemplate, but his book, “The Inferno,” more than compensated 
for all. It had a pretty good sale, and for two years after its 
publication he had three meals a day and an extra suit of clothes 
for Sunday wear. It must be understood that I would not snatch 
the laurels from the brow of the illustrious Dante — he explored 
Hell first; I come after. Mine was an easier job, though not with¬ 
out a good deal of hard work. I surely would not do it again. 

The accompanying picture of Mr. Dante is made from an old 
bas-relief found in Florence. It is supposed to have been made 
just after he had arrived in that city from his memorable trip 
through Hades. The story goes that he was taken out by the boys 
on the day of his return, and filled full of macaroni and rare old 
wine; then they got a Kodak fiend to shoot at him, and the bas- 
relief was made from the Kodak picture. 


10 

































































































































































HADES UP TO DATE. 


"VTOT so very long ago I was assigned by the managing editor of a 
New York paper to “write up” an illustrated article upon the 
city of Chicago. It was at the time when there was an obvious 
yearning on the part of the public for articles relating to “ the typi¬ 
cal American city.” 

I was told to note particularly its modern improvements, the 
cable lines, the high buildings, its system of electric intercourse 
between man and man, the character of its people, and their busi¬ 
ness enterprise. Above all, I was to treat them witli absolute fair¬ 
ness. 

At about 8 o’clock on the evening of the second day of my 
journey from the metropolis, I went to the dining-car and ate a 
heartv meal — a meal of the kind that incites a weak-kneed 
stomach to rise and mutiny. Coming back, I sat down and began 
reading a favorite book which I had brought to while away the 


time. The book was Dante’s “Inferno.” Often I had scanned its 
artful illustrations by Dore, but never had I read the verse. I now 
read canto after canto of the Florentine poet’s yarns about the con¬ 
demned souls. After the story of Paola and Francesca, interest no 
longer held me, and I closed the book, leaned back and began to 
muse over all that I had read. Then I thought of my assignment, 
how I would treat the subject, and what I would sketch. What 
with thoughts of modern buildings, of cable roads, of arch-heretics 
in their fiery tombs, of slot-machines and gibbering ghosts, of pig¬ 
sticking machines and headless spirits, of electric lights and 
Adam’s evil brood gulping the blood of Styx, my mind was truly in 
a muddled state. Easily these thoughts mingled and wove them¬ 
selves, as I drowsily cast all else from me and gave myself over to 
the mercies of a nightmare dream. 

Methought- 


13 




HADES UP TO DATE 


I was taken off my guard as the train came to a curve in the 
track and suddenly found myself lying prone by the road-side. On 
either side there stretched a trackless forest, a screaming wilderness, 
a wild desolation. Overhead a ghostly night wind ploughed through 
the tree-tops and wailed and sobbed like a lost spirit. Amidst a 
whizzing of unseen bats and the hoots of melancholy owls, I arose, 
and, combing the gravel out of my raven locks, set forth in a south¬ 
easterly direction. Through briars and bushes, over prickly plants 
and vines that laced together like a tangled knot of serpents, down 
deep chasms and black ravines, I stumbled toward The Unseen. 
When my emotion had abated a little I found myself alone in the- 
heart of a forest whose trees were so thickly crowded together that 
the air was dense and hard to breathe. 



14 







MR. DANTE’S SUCCESSOR FALLS OFF A FAST-MOVING TRAIN. 





















































































HADES UP TO DATE 


tfie ©yv'a^/ To JTeff. 

Down through the thick, curdling gloom I wandered, clamber¬ 
ing over rocks slimy with the fungi of ages, till I came to a 
projecting precipice, from which I peered and discerned a dim 
light through the steam and smoke that arose sluggishly from 

below. 

Presently I heard voices. As I crawled down lower they grew 
quite audible. “ Show yer tickets ! ” “There! Stop crowdin’!” 
“ Git off the platform ! ” and other exclamations came to my ears. 
« What can all this mean ? ” thought I to myself. “ Am I dream¬ 
ing ? Can this be Hell, or is it only Chicago ? Hell! Think of 
it. I’ll interview Mr. Satan. What a scoop!” And I nearly lost 
my grip on the rock at the thought of such an opportunity. b e, 
seventy-five cents a chunk!” “Fans, very cheap!” Everybody 

talking at once. What pandemonium ! 

This must be Hell, and the soliloquy was verified when, in a 
few more minutes, I stood before the entrance. There was no 
mistake; over the portal’s lofty arch were written those terrible 

words: 

“LEAVE ALL HOPE OX THE OUTSIDE.” 



16 


> 
















ON THE WAY TO HELL. 






































































































































































HADES UP TO DATE 



(UBe Main Gnfranee. 

This picture will give a good idea of the main entrance as it 
appears at most any hour of the day or night. , 

Trains arrive every half hour from all points in the Union, and 
stop just long enough for the doomed souls to have their heavy 
clothes checked and get fitted out with light, fire-proof pantalets. 

I had a hot argument with the janitor, who insisted that I could 
not go in. It was not until I told him that I had a letter of intro¬ 
duction to Air. Satan from Col. Bob Ingersoll that he acquiesced. 
Then, after exchanging my rather heavy clothes for a checkered 
nlster, a pair of linen trousers (which, as will be seen by the 
picture, were made for another who grew shorter than I) and a 
palm-leaf fan, I screwed my courage to the sticking-point and 
passed into the city of woe. 


18 






THE MAIN ENTRANCE 






















































































































































































































































































































































































































©Y'ftere tfte $mnerA S^egiArer. 

On passing through the outer corridor or cavern, a low mutter, 
as of thunder, which grew louder and louder as I advanced, shook 
the region. A train-load of souls came screaming through the 
gloom" I stepped aside and let them pass. I always do when I 
hear a train coming. They crossed a new cantilever suspension 
bridge and came to a stop. The passengers piled out and were 
driven around to the place of registry, where they wrote then- 

names and addresses in a large book. 

This book is very interesting. It contains the autograph of 

every sin-soaked mortal that ever died. 

Down in the corner, where tear-drops had stained the leaves a 
deep yellow, I recognized the familiar autograph of an old sinner 
and neighbor of mine who used to put ashes on his sidewalk where 
I wanted to skate. I tried to feel regretful for him, hut I couldn t. 






THE REGISTER, 



















































































































HADES UP TO DATE 


ePv ^)iecn oj? ©ne Corner, 

At Mr. Satan’s suggestion, I went to the top of his brimstone 
works and made the accompanying sketch, which gives a sort of 
bird’s-eye view of one corner of Hell. There is but one elevator-, 
shaft visible in this picture. The reader will gather some idea of 
the magnitude of the place when I make the assertion that there 
are at least one thousand of these elevators running constantly. 

Thanks to the true American spirit which pervades everywhere, 
a weather forecast for each week is posted up in full view of these 
wretched people, that they may be prepared for sudden changes in 
the temperature. “ I guess it’ll get a little cooler before long, I 
would hear them say, as they stood around the bulletin board with 
hopeful eyes and bark-peeled noses. But the cooler days never 
came. Like the patient dry-goods clerk waiting from day to day 
for a raise in salary, the poor fools get nothing but hope. 

* * # 

(iJnfersieco coifft Mr. 3 a ^ ar1, 

My first object was to see Mr. Satan, have a nice interview with 
him and, if possible, get a few hints on the whereabouts of the most 
interesting sights in his world-famed liot-bed of human woe. After 
asking several hired men, with pitch-forks, where I could find ‘the 
old man” (as they call him), and receiving no response, save rude 
jeers and stabs in the ribs, I concluded to hunt him myself. 

Following the direction of a sign-board which pointed toward a 
long, steep ascent of rugged rock, I soon found myself before 
an arched doorway where swung to the hot breeze the inscription . 
“MR. SATAN’S PRIVATE OFFICE.” I walked in. 


“Howdy, old boy ?” said I, in my engaging, off-hand way. 

He turned slowly in his chair, like a bank president who expects 
to be bored by a book agent. Then his eyes fell on me for an inter¬ 
val, and he looked me all over. He spoke out rather gruffly, I 
thought, with : “ Well, what is it ?” 

“Your Majesty,” said I, walking up near to him, “my name is 
Young. I’ve just come down to look your place over. If every¬ 
thing is satisfactory, I may settle here some time in the sweet 
bv-and-by. You see, it’s this way,” I continued, shifting my 
position, and coaxing up a serious expression: “There seems to 
be a wrong impression on earth as to just how your place is run. 
Since Mr. Dante wrote up Hell in the city papers of Italy, it has 
been in very bad repute; people are not aware that you keep astride 
with the onward march of civilization —that your place is run on 
the American plan. I am not a little surprised, myself, to see 
things as they are. Now, if you will consent to a short interview, 
l can give you three columns, with illustrations, in one of the best 
papers of the United States, together with a full-length portrait 
of yourself, and such facts as will correct certain erroneous reports 
current in the world concerning your personality.” 

“Find a lump of ice and sit down,” said he. “I ll attend to 
your case in a minute.” Then he turned away to answer a 
telephone call. 

From the back window of his office I gazed down on a magnifi¬ 
cent sweeping view of Hell in all its fury. Thousands of telegraph 
wires and pneumatic tubes diverged from this central office to all 
points in the region. The merry tinkle of the typewriter could be 
heard in an adjoining room. Just opposite, on a hill, stood the 
great sulphur works, employing two thousand non-union demons. 
As soon as he had discontinued the telephone conversation, which. 




niE VIEW FROM THE BRIMSTONE WORKS. 


































































































































































































































HADES UP TO DATE 


as well as I could make out, was held with a woman in the female 
department who wanted to know if she couldn't have a looking- 
glass to do up her bangs, he turned his attention to me. I give the 
whole of my interview with this great man, using as much as pos¬ 
sible his own words. 

“Mr. Satan,” said I, in a tremulous voice, for I knew the man’s 
mighty power, “do you never worry over the thought that, some 
time, those old New York capitalists may band together when they 
get here, grab up all your successful enterprises, form a trust and 
crowd you to the wall ? It strikes me they could put in refriger¬ 
ators, fire escapes, rotary fans, hand grenades, etc., and make them¬ 
selves pretty comfortable if they had control.” 

“Now, young man,” said Mr. Satan, “come here to me ! ” And, 
grabbing me by the neck-tie, he pulled me close to his desk, and 
took down the telephone. “Give me four-naught-six,” he cried. 
A moment elapsed and I heard a voice that suggested a boiled 
wind-pipe creep through the ’phone. 

“ What you want ? ” said the voice. 

“ Is this the department of monopolists ? ” queried Mr. Satan. 

“Yes, sir,” replied the voice. 

“Now, young man,” said Mr. Satan, turning to me, “put your 
ear close to this telephone.” I obeyed. “Hear that sizzling and 
sputtering, like the noise of frying liver ? ” he asked. 

“ Well, I should say so ! ” 

“ Hear the groans ? ” 

“ Yes ! yes ! ” 

“ Well, those are the capitalists who have come down here with 
the intention of running things. We call that the Armour fat- 
frying emporium.” And Mr. Satan drew himself down in his coat 
collar and chuckled. 


“Pretty hot down here,” said I, running my handkerchief 
around between my neck and collar. 

“We don’t have much skating weather, that’s true,” he replied. 

“I suppose,” I continued, “you run across lots of cranks — 
fellows with ideas for improving Hell ? ” 

“Lots of ’em. Some of the ideas I utilize ; others I reject.” 

“ But Hell owes her prosperous appearance and her modern 
conveniences to these very cranks ? ” 

“ Of course, improvements in the mode of punishment are fre¬ 
quently offered— usually by individuals in whose bosoms the spirit 
of jealousy is still rankling; but that makes no difference to us. 
For instance, it was a St. Louis man who came to me a short time 
ago with a splendid receipt for cooking the tough old gray-headed 
roosters who came here from Chicago. We are now using the 
receipt, and it works like a charm. We can cook the toughest Chi¬ 
cagoan they can send in ten days, although formerly it took nearly 
that many years. The St. Louis man wears a medal on his breast. 
The other day, a crank who hailed from somewhere down near 
Worcester, Massachusetts, came to me with an idea for a non-com¬ 
bustible thermometer, but it didn't work. We find elevators a 
great help to us in getting up and down in a hurry. When that old 
dago from Italy was down here, we did not have any kind of 
facilities for getting around. And, of course, when he went back 
and wrote us up, he didn’t give the place a very good send-off. 
But I got even with him.” And Mr. Satan gritted his teeth till the 
sparks flew. 

“I see you have an electric railway down here,” said I, looking 
out of the window. 

“ Sure,” said his royal highness. “ And look at our slot machines. 
When the dago was down here we didn't have a one. If you can 











MR. SATAN’S PRIVATE OFFICE. 











































































































































































































































































































































































































































































HADES UP TO DATE 


sit on a cushion of sharp tacks you can ride on those electric cars 
all over Hell. And yet,” he continued, with a sudden melancholy, 
“and yet some people are dissatisfied.” 

“Mr. Satan,” said I (meantime keeping one eye on Cerberus, 
the three-headed bull-dog, who sat wrinkling up his three noses in 
away that made me ill at ease), “you certainly must keep up a 
lively interest in what is going on in Heaven. Have you telephone 
connections ? ” 

“ Yes, sir ; we have a through line right to the gate. 

“Then you are on terms of intimacy with St. Peter ? ” 

“ Well, no — not exactly. You see, I would much prefer having 
one of my own men run that end of the line. But St. Peter 
stands in. He’s been taking in tickets at the gate ever since it was 
opened, and I must say the old man has become a little careless. 
I’ve heard of several cases where some of those sleek Denver people 
have sneaked in under the clouds while the old man was polishing 
his spectacles. Now, anybody can see that lie’s no fit man for the 
job. However, he often sends me some splendid specimens of 
sinners. Only yesterday he telephoned down to know if I would 
take a Boston woman who had just arrived and was dissatisfied 
with the place — homesick, you know. Not long ago he sent me 
down seven large, disgruntled Milwaukee men, who said they 
wouldn’t stay in a place where there was no beer. These favors I 
appreciate, but it stands to reason that a man like St. Peter,^ old 
and gouty, with rheumatism in his wrists and corns on his feet, 
should be fired; still, I shouldn’t like to have this opinion get into 

the papers.” 

“They say on earth, Mr. Satan, that people who come down 
here from Memphis, Tennessee, always telegraph back for their 
winter clothes ? ” 


“Yes, that’s true,” he replied, “but we put a stop to it. You 
see, we’re not showing favors to anybody. 

“ Have you any such thing as a guide-book ? ” I asked. 

Mr. Satan here lifted a neat volume from his desk, remarking : 

“ Here is a little book I had printed for my employes. \ ou will 
find it a great help to you in getting around. It contains a map of 
Hell, with all the different departments located. But you had bet¬ 
ter see Captain Charon, the pilot. He can give you some valuable 
information.” 

“ Thank you,” said I, putting on my hat. After asking me about 
several of his friends in the United States Senate and the \\ isconsin 
State Legislature, and expressing his earnest regrets that they didn t 
die faster, he arose, and I understood that the interview was at an end. 

“Much obliged, Mr. Satan,” I said. “Good day.” 

“So long,” said his majesty. 

I took a good look at him as he stood there in all his majestic 
splendor. Mr. Satan is above medium height and is not at all a 
bad-looking man. To be sure, lie has a cloven foot, horns, a long 
tail and a dark complexion. But, as some one else has remarked, 
“he is not nearly as black as sometimes painted. His tail, which, 
as I subsequently learned, was broken off in a tussle with a Chicago 
policeman, had been spliced, and is now as good as new. He wears a 
plug hat, buttons his coat on the wrong side, and smokes cigarettes. 

Before I had gone out of hearing, he called me back and kindly 
gave me a note to Captaip Charon, the assistant superintendent, 
telling him to submit to a biographical interview, and to see that I 
had every accommodation. The note also said that if we adveitised 
the place so as to induce additional custom, the Captain was to extend 
favors to our people ; if not, we had better try to get into the other- 
place. And again Mr. Satan bade me adieu. 




THE IION. MR. SATAN. (From a lute photograph.) 






























HADES UP TO DATE 


“ ($<*> it (Hot Grtougft for ^ou?” 

The fishing is not good in Hell. Consequently Mr. Satan never 
goes fishing. At times, however, he feels the need of a little recre¬ 
ation, and then he escapes the grinding cares and worry of business 
verv agreeably. Leaving the office in the care of an understudy, he 
selects a long-handled frying-pan from the warehouse and takes a 
brisk walk of three miles to the lake of fire. A large crate filled to 
the brim with men who have asked their weltering fellows the ques¬ 
tion, “ Is it hot enough for you ? ” stands by this lake for Mr. 
Satan’s private use. Mr. Satan opens the crate, removes an idiot, 
puts him in the pan and toasts him over the fire, basting him mean¬ 
time with tabasco sauce and vitriol. Occasionally a demon appears 
upon the scene and asks with great solicitude if it is hot enough for 
him. 

The intensely poetic justice of this proceeding is at once ap¬ 
parent. 


28 





THE “IS IT-HOT-ENOUGH-FOR-YOU” IDIOT. 

























































































































































































































































































































































































HADES UP TO DATE 


Ufie dJnfensiecn coifft (iaptain (iftaron. 


As a shining example of the kind of men who combine personal 
magnetism and keen business qualities with deep, untiring zeal, I 
would cite old Captain Charon, who began his career as ferryman 
with a little tub of a row-boat, hardly large enough to hold an 
alderman, but who now runs a large side-wheeler, double-decked, 
and fitted out with all modern improvements. The Captain is 
full of reminiscences, and withal is one of the most interesting of 
the personages who lend their beauty to the adornment of this sub¬ 
terranean city. Standing seven feet ten in his stocking feet, with 
large, mobile features, and a yard or more of wind-kissed whiskers, 
a mouth as firm as a steel-trap, and a voice loud and deep,—some¬ 
thing of the G flat bazoo quality,—he certainly is a man to move 
the masses, and he does move them — by the boat-load. 

The accompanying picture of this great man is reproduced from 
a late photograph taken as he appears in every-day attire, without 
any neck-tie. 

I met the Captain at the boat-landing, as his craft was taking on 
a load of passengers. 

“Mr. Charon, I believe,” said I, walking up after he had 

finished giving orders to a deck-hand. 

“That’s my name,” he roared. Methought I had never heard 

such a voice before. 

“Well,” I murmured, modestly, “Mr. Satan said I had better 
have a talk with you. Now will you tell me, Captain, how long you 
have been pilot down here ? ” 

lie paused a minute and answered, “ Ever since dey had de free- 
beer opening — about the year one, I reckon. 


“Then you’ve piloted a great many people across this river ?” 

“ Yer dead right.” 

“ Don’t you find them hard to manage sometimes ?” 

“Well, yer see it’s dis way: if dey don t like our style dey gits 
out and swims ; see ? De blokes from Minneapolis won t ride aid 
de St. Paul fellers, so dey knows what dey can do.” Then he ram¬ 
bled on in his coarse way, and told me how they found it necessary 
to put sinners from Yankton, Cheyenne, Leadville, Laramie City 
and Walla Walla down in the steerage, where they could spit on the- 
floor and swear with impunity. 

There is every evidence that the Captain is sick of his job. The- 
plow of care has made deep furrows in his weather-beaten brow. 
When he walks he seems to have that wobbly, tired feeling, and as 
he stepped toward the gang-plank preparatory to ascending, it was 
plain to me that life had but few charms for him. 

“Captain,” said I, “I don’t want to detain you, but will you tell 
me what slow-moving, bewhiskered crowd that is, coming down 
this way?” He leveled his telescope in the direction of the throng. 
“Dem’s St. Louis fellers,” he said. “ We’ve had tree boat-loads'of 
nothin’ but St. Louis people in de las’ week.” 

The Captain has a standing reputation in Hell as the keenest 
observer of any of Satan’s trusted employes. It is said no one has 
ever yet walked the gang-plank of his boat whose earthly home 
was not known by his personal appearance, though many of the 
new immigrants refused to disclose their identity. 

I gathered from one of the pier policemen, who is also quite an. 
adept, a few hints as to how the Captain identifies people so easily. 


30 





CAPTAIN CIIAKON. 














































HADES UP TO DATE 


The Boston man will toe-in and roll his spectacled eyes like a 
calf that has swallowed a whole summer squash. 

Brooklyn men wear side-whiskers and walk with their arms out¬ 
stretched, as if in the act of wheeling spectral baby-carriages. 

Those from Vermont, and, more particularly, those from Rutland 
of that State, invariably give themselves away by saying, “ This is 


Rochester men have a henpecked look, and seem apathetic. 
Apparently they don’t care much whether they are in Hell or back 
home. 

Chattanooga men have to be shaken up and prodded every 
minute, or they fall asleep. 

A man from Texas will keep his hand behind him, as if to draw 


■tumble, this is tumble,” with an accent on the “tur” and a deep 
nasal twang. 

' Hew York City folks walk with their noses in the air and a • 
know-it-all manner. 

Men from Portland, Oregon, keep their boots on and swear fer¬ 
vently all the time. 

(ironing i‘fte 

The Styx is the only navigable river in Hell. Like the fra¬ 
grance of the famed Chicago River, the subtle “Jockey Club” comes 
rolling swiftly in on the breeze to meet you, long before you think 
you are anywhere near the river itself. Captain Charon s boat, the 
“ Birdie,” makes the run from shore to shore in just fifteen minutes. 
It carries three hundred souls, provided they will let their feet hang 
over, and put up with cramped accommodations. On board is an 
orchestra of two pieces —a brass horn and a back-number accordeon. 


a pistol. 

Washington men walk around with an anxious look, and ask 
everybody if all the soft jobs of the place have been spoken for. 

And thus the life’s habit of each individual breaks out in some 
way and plainly stamps his identity. 


No torture in Hell is quite so poignant as that provided by this 


band when it gets fairly in motion. The players have only one 
selection,— “Annie Rooney,”—and the cries of the damned, while 
this is being played, are heart-rending. It is, nevertheless, a grand 
sight to watch the “ Birdie ” as she sails out from the pier, the band 
playing, and the grand old Captain standing on the roof of the 
pilot-house, with nothing on but a seersucker coat and a pair of 
gaiters, as he scans the bosom of the deep. He is much 
annoyed when peddlers come wading out to meet the boat with 

“cliob lot” suspenders and collar-buttons. 

32 






i 



CROSSING THE STYX, 





































































































































HADES UP TO DATE 


©yftere tfte ^inner^ (iome to ^uelgment. 

This is tlie tragic scene where Judge Minos reigns supreme. 
Here each sinner is brought before the bar, to answer for his 
earthly crimes. Far up the mountain side, arranged directly in 
front oi the Judge, in rows of hundreds, and extending as far as 
the human eye could reach, was the vast army of naked souls 
awaiting their turn to be judged. Below was a row from Chicago ; 
next, a row from Cincinnati; another row was reserved for people 
from Oshkosh; another, for those from Kalamazoo. Still others 
surmounted these, extending upward, tier on tier, till the murk of 
the fog-cloud kissed the bald heads of a row from the little city of 
Ephratah, Pennsylvania. When the ill-fated soul stands before 
this supreme court, he confesses all aye, everything and the 
Judge, who knows his business, considers what place m Hell suits 
the transgression. A small, weak-kneed sinner, with a pink nose, 
was on trial as I approached. “Well, what have you to say?’' 
asked the Judge, in a loud tone of voice. 


«Yer Honor,” said the poor wretch, “Til be honest with you. 

I was, while on earth, always going out between the acts at the 

theater, and ”- 

“Enough said,” growled the Judge. “Officer, take this man to 
the brink of the precipice, and hurl him plumb to the basement. 
Shortly afterward, I heard a crash. I knew that one more 

soul had struck the frying-pan of eternal doom. 

Note : Judge Minos is well spoken of in Mr. Dante’s book on 
“Hell.” I did not interview the gentleman, but it is evident that 
he is one of the hardest-worked men in the place. The Judge > 
decisions, as a rule, seem fair enough, yet it is sometimes remarked 
that he is a little too lenient with rich old monopolists. The 
suspicion is gaining ground that if His Honor is approached in the 
right way lie may be touched with a little boodle. 






JUDGE MINOS’ COURT-ROOM. 







































































HA DES UP TO DATE 



@Jf\e IpofitieaP (larieafurhsT. 


Just across the bridge of the Lethe, there lies a small territory 
vhere may be found the wretched souls of the political caricaturists. 
On first sight, I was attracted by the novelty of the huge easels 

it which demons were drawing pictures. 

The souls themselves I found, on approaching closer, to be 
strangely distorted, and so grotesque and ludicrous that, if pity had 
not swayed me, laughter would have shaken my sides, doubled me 
up and rolled me on the floor. 

Looking down what looked like a long hallway, I saw caricatures 
in variegated colors hanging before these individuals. 

Then only, I learned the piteous truth. The demon cartoonist 

. .. ii il. „ ,^4^4-4 yymIIpiI 




and twisted, rolled and kneaded, until he resembles in every way 

the demon’s fanciful conception. 

Through all time thereafter he looks at his own picture. 



36 







TIIE POLITICAL CARICATURISTS. 














































HADES UP TO DATE 



(Ufte iJemafe ©epartmenf. 

Coming to a spot where the plain of “ Pokerdom ” ends abruptly 
and descends in an almost perpendicular steep, thousands of voices 
arose from below ; they were female voices. I looked over and dis¬ 
cerned, through the dim light, the battlements surrounding what I 
afterward learned was the department for the punishment of 
women. “ Women who step off the street-cars backwards; ” 
“Women who lavish their affections on poodle dogs;” “Hired 
girls ; ” “ Telephone girls ; ” “ The woman who pounds her husband 
with a broom when she should take an ax”—these, all these, live 
in Hades and suffer. 

Passing my solitary way down the steep, with both hands and 
feet doing active service, I drew near to the entrance, where the 
rabble of voices now sounded like several sewing societies in joint 
caucus. I saw a notice over the door, to the effect that gentlemen 
were not wanted. I made an effort to sueak in, notwithstanding, 
but was detected by a coy chambermaid, who guards the entrance, 
and who whisked me out with a suddenness that it makes me dizzy 
to think of, even now. Not entirely disheartened, I wandered 
around the wall and, while no one was looking, climbed up a step- 
ladder and carried on a little quiet flirtation with a fair-haired 
sinner over the wall. 


:ss 


♦ 












ENTRANCE TO THE FEMALE DEPARTMENT. 













































































































































































































































HADES UP TO DATE 


Ufte §). ©• Q- l^irrjitec^ frorrj Qeco ^orft <§ity. 

As I still journeyed downward, I looked up and beheld, coming 
down a steep grade of the most uncomfortable-looking corduroy 
road I ever saw, a train-load of howling souls. The engine yelled 
as if it were being tortured. The owls on the telegraph wires 
flapped their wings and darted olf in all directions. The coaches 
were crowded to overflowing. Those who did not arrive call} and 
avoid the rush had to sit on the roof. They had a hard time 
hanging on.' As soon as the terrible noise had died away, I col¬ 
lected my senses and stumbled on down the rocks. I prefcried 
going this way to taking an elevator. I wanted to see everything. 

This train, I afterward learned, was what they call in Hell the 
P. D. Q. Limited from New York City. It carries all sorts of sin¬ 
ners, from cigarette fiends to railway hogs. 


40 






THE LIMITED EXPItESS FROM NEW YORK CITY. 



































































































































HADES UP TO DATE 


dln'sentor oj? tfte S^arS-©^ 11- ® iJenee. 

Hard by sat the man who is responsible for the treacherous 
barb-wire fence, which now covers the otherwise free countiy of 
America. Ilis lot is not a pleasant one. He sits forever on his 
own fence and fritters away the spare moments thinking of what 
might not have been. 




(^ornef-lpfa^/er. 

Off in a corner, all by himself, seated on the point of a ridge, I 
discovered this infamy of human kind, the cornet fiend. There 
the detested nuisance cowered, while at his side a huge horn belched 
forth such Wagnerian noises as nearly stunned the senses. At the 
month-piece of the horn, demons worked a huge bellows. Eternally, 
forever and aye they pumped, while the brass Vesuvius poured 
forth job-lot sonatas and the wretch vainly wished for deafness. 

Sometimes I would catch a snatch from “V hite V ings,” some¬ 
times a few notes from “Ta-ra-ra,” and again a little wad from 
“Johnny, Get Your Gun.” It would seem that any one of these 
melodies, played singly and alone, would have been torture enough 
for one poor soul. Played together in a grand free-for-all, catch-as- 
catch-can pot-pourri, it was simply horrible. I turned and wept. 


42 
































HADES UP TO DATE 


@J^e Um6ref?a-Si>orrocoei\ 

Nothing, it seems, is too severe for the man who borrows 
umbrellas and forgets to bring them back. Chained to a barren rock 
in the middle of a mud lake, I saw this fiend sit, laved in woe, while 
he clutched the remnant of an umbrella and the rain descended in 

torrents. 

It rains all sorts of things —cats, worms and snakes. A crash 
of thunder is a signal for a shower of pitchforks, and the poor 
wretch humps himself, even as a cow heaves her spine, to meet the 
down-pouring deluge. When this storm gets through with him, he 
looks like a huge pincushion. 




(Ku&SarjiU. 

According to the imperial mandate of infernal law, the husband 
who purchases fine apparel for himself only, is here dressed up in a 
most ridiculous costume — just such a dress as a sane woman would 
refuse to wear more than once, if at all. Thus he is compelled to 
appear always, and, although he goes around forever whining about 
his personal attire, his efforts to get a change are without avail. 
He is the laughing-stock and tantalized target of the wit and 
ridicule of all Hell. 

One of this class of sinners, tagged from the poor little city of 
Kokomo, Indiana, was singled out as an especially fine mark for the 
demons. 

The picture of this man, as he appears in Hell, is put forth as a 
warning to just such sinners who still repiain on earth. 


44 













THE UMBRELLA-BORROWER. 


THE SELFISH HUSBAND 




















































































HADES UP TO DATE 


(UKe (Uaifo?^. 


The belief has been held by a large number of gentlemen that 
tailors make bad-fitting clothes just out of pure deviltry. Tim 
theory is in some degree corroborated by the amount of space and 
attention given to these individuals in Hell. 

In one of the hottest locations in the region — a place so hot 
that you can broil a steak by exposing it to the air, a place where 
the thermometer never comes down to even boiling heat — these- 
tailors fume and steam, attired in their own misfits. 

I stood on a red-hot iron bridge just as long as I could, gazing 
down on this sweltering throng, for they were an interesting crowd. 
Finally one of the number, on seeing me, tore madly through the- 
crowd, waving a bill over his head. I knew what that meant, and 


fled. 



46 







THE TAILORS. 

































































































































































































































HADES UP TO DATE 


(IJfte 

Through a dark pathway I now entered into the department 
where the professional “mashers” are punished. These “mash¬ 
ers” (or “dudes,” if your prefer), who habitually stand on street 
corners and ogle pretty girls, are here given a taste of “ mashing ” 
as Mr. Satan interprets it. Under huge rocks, each of which 
weighs about as much as a wagon-load of squashes, these wretches 
lie and feebly flounder, while the haunted air rings with their 
despondent bellowing. 

Most of them were still quite young; excessive cigarette-smok¬ 
ing had smoothed their paths to an early grave. Cigarette-smoking 
lias some advantages. 

Being struck by the familiarity of a pair of moony eyes that 
rolled upwards as I approached, I stooped down, and, grabbing the 
shade by his strawberry bangs, cried : “ Tell me, aren’t you the 
Rochester dude that used to stand at the ‘four corners’ and 
insult modest maidenhood ? What’s your name ? ” He made no 
reply. I shook him again and again, until he yelled. A dude 


Ia<&fte7<s>, 


from Philadelphia, lying hard by, on hearing the noise, thereupon 
cried out to him, calling him by his full name, and asking what 
was the matter. 

“Now, be dumb,” said I. “I have your name.” And 1 shook 
him again at parting, and gave him a saucy slap in the face. 
Rochester people who knew this butterfly on earth will certainly 
not chide me for that slap. Near him were mashers from Brooklyn 
and Philadelphia. Down the embankment, a little way removed, I 
found a dapper little flirt from Utica, New York. I counted no 
less than twenty-five, all in a bunch, who hailed from Saratoga. 
Passing still downward, I beheld a woebegone spirit with a gloomy 
malformation of banged brow, from Hartford, Connecticut. Only 
his head protruded from underneath his weight of woe, while his 
pretty mouth bit the dust like a hysterical woman gnawing a lace 
handkerchief. 

“ I say,” he cried, motioning me to his side. “ Is my neck-tie on 
straight ? ” I hurried on and said not a word. 


48 







THE MASHERS. 

































































































































HADES UP TO DATE 


eh ©entif&r^ ©Jafe. 

The next soul I discovered enjoying the luxuries ot Hell was a 
dentist. It was the very man who had, a few years ago, pulled me 
all over a brand-new set of plush furniture, down two flights of 
stairs and back again, in the frantic endeavor to extract a tooth 
that I insisted didn’t need extracting. I simply looked up as I saw 
him being whisked through the air, and said, pleasantly, “Well, 
how do you like it yourself ?” He did not answer. He could not. 


(S\?eat ehmericar} Ipoficeman. 

Policemen who make use of the side-door, policemen who prac¬ 
tice their club-exercises on small boys, those who sleep on their 
beats, and all those who have ever refused to answer a civil ques¬ 
tion, find ample accommodations and a reception of undeniable 
warmth in the lower world. Immediately on their arrival they are 
thrust into the electrical patrol-wagon, furnished with bent pins in 
the seats, and trotted out to a lively district where professional 
carpet-beaters armed with clubs ever flail the air. Often they get 
into the way of the clubs. It is a matter of tradition that mundane 
policemen look upon their five-pointed stars with pride. But when 
they encounter the clubs below they see more stars, round, five- 
pointed, octagonal and rhomboid, than they can possibly have time 
to admire. 











THE FATE OF A DENTIST 


HAYING FCN WITH A POLICEMAN 










HADEb i t J TO DATE 


@lfte bacoije7<s>. 

The department set aside for lawyers is full to overflowing. Mr. 
Satan was compelled to add an annex to the rear of the department 
recently, for the exclusive accommodation of legal lights from 1 hila- 
delphia. No plaint was heard here ; nothing but deep-heaved sighs 
that made the eternal air shiver — sighs caused not by torture, but 
from grief felt by these vast multitudes. 

Every lawyer in Hell is gagged—another evidence that Mr. 
Satan knows human character. It is a fearful punishment, and the 
spectacle of these barristers would melt the heart of a sleeping-car 
porter. What mischief could a lawyer not do in Hades if he were 
not gagged ? Every one would go to headquarters, immediately on 
his arrival, and present a plea for a new trial or make objections to 
the rulings of Judge Minos. Moreover, he and his colleagues 
would promise to bail out every sinner in Hades — if there was any¬ 
thing in it. As they sat around on the rocks, champing their gags 
as the untrained broncho champs his bit, I could not but see the 
necessity of their cruel penalty. It they ever try to make objec¬ 
tions to the way things are run down there, Mr. Satan firmly over- 
rules the objection, and that settles it. 


52 





THE LAWYERS. 








































































HADES UP TO DATE 


<J\ 6}ame in dKeff. 

I was fortunate in arriving ih Hell at a time when I might wit¬ 
ness a scene that had never before been known in the history of the 
place. Never, until this time, had the sinners known a single 
hour’s respite from torture. In this one brief holiday, Mr. Satan 
permitted the holding of a base-ball contest between picked nines 
from Boston and Chicago sinners. Mr. Satan himself came down 
on the elevator from his private office above, with Cerberus and a 
crowd of employes and valets. He took his seat in the gorgeously 
canopied grand-stand built for the occasion, and the vast multitude 
of the amphitheater rose as one man, shouting : “ ’ Rah for the old 

man ! He’s all right.” A demon pressed an electric button at the 
right of Satan, and the whistles of the brimstone factories immedi¬ 
ately began to blow, cannons boomed, and all Hell shook with the 
roar. It was the signal for the game to commence. Mr. Satan 
chose himself umpire. During the entire game, there was nothing 
thrown at him. What he said “went.” Mr. James B-, a Chi¬ 
cago real-estate man, was catcher for the Chicagos. Jonas R-, 

ex-member of the Board of Education of “The Hub,” stood behind 
the bat for the Bostons. A train dispatcher pitched for Chicago, 
and did some very effective twirling. The game was exciting. 
Chicago won after two hours of work. The twenty thousand or 
more sinners who made up the audience went back to their respect¬ 
ive punishments, and Hell once more assumed its business-like 
appearance. The holiday was over. The residents will probably 
never have another. 


54 









A HALL GAME, 































































































































































































































HADES UP TO DATE 


(U^e S^epor£er<§>. 

Standing like patient oxen in their stalls, there now appeared 
before me a long row of hapless sinners, each held tightly by the 
nose, in the grip of a huge vise. This is the penalty ordained for 
the man who perpetually intrudes his nose into the business of 
others. In this same department were other reporters, whose 
crime was that of asking their acquaintances, every time they 
chanced to meet, for “the loan of a V.” Through a short journal¬ 
istic career, I have played an easy victim to these people. As a 
consequence, I now have several outstanding accounts which I am 
going to turn over to a collector, with the understanding that he is 
to have a house and lot for every dollar collected. I do not think 
that collector will ever have a house and lot of his own. 


<U^e Man co^o ©)jV oufiln’t |§noco. 

One portion of the back yard of the brimstone works is set 
apart for a small but interesting class of miscreants. It is com¬ 
posed of men who, after seeing their neighbors carefully clean the 
sidewalks before their front doors, would leave the pave in front of 
their own homes covered with snow and slush. These individuals 
are here set to a task of perpetual shoveling. There is no snow, of 
course, but they are made to shovel brimstone, and to the supply of 
brimstone there is no limit. As soon as the shoveler has scooped 
away a little bare place in his heap, a demon comes along and fills 
it over again. The shoveler is never allowed to stop to blow on his 
fingers, or change hands on the scoop-handle, or rest his aching 
shoulder. It is estimated that the work of one of these individuals 
alone, during seven months, would suffice to clean all the sidewalks 
in America and make a big hole in the Arctic snowbanks. 


50 










































HADES UP TO DATE 


(Hfte Gc}ifo7<S>. 

Editors who take an awful satisfaction in rejecting manuscript 
are piled in huge, red-hot iron waste-baskets. Those, also, who 
sin by swearing falsely to the circulation of their papers are here. 
They are put down deep into the bottom of the baskets, as the 
smallest and wormiest apples are always found in the lowest depths 
of the barrel. Here, also, are those editors who never credit 
stolen matter. In the valleys and on the mountain sides, in caves 
and in ditches everywhere, were to be seen these waste-baskets, each 
holding at least one hundred and fifty editors. I trust this news 
will send a thrill of serene joy through the heart of the struggling 
story-writer and the amateur poet. Democratic and Republican 
editors are thrown together regardless of their political works. 
Often — and this must be a pitiless punishment — a Republican 
editor, for instance, will find himself associated, cheek by jowl, with 
the editor of a rival Democratic paper. Free-traders rub elbows 
■with protectionists. No wonder these baskets of humankind heave 
and toss with the wild animation that pervades a can of angle- 
worm bait. 








THE EDITORS. 





































































HADES UP TO DATE 


Mr. Jgatar} eJ\cjcjre<Ming QmpPoijed). 


Occasionally Mr. Satan makes a trip through Hell on his special 
car with a view to seeing how things are progressing. On these 
tours of inspection, he frequently makes speeches to the crowds that 
collect around his private coach to get a look at “the old man.’ 

On the occasion of his last trip, there was a strike threatening 
at the sulphur factory. A certain walking delegate from St. Louis 
got into the establishment and ordered them all to quit. Mr. 
Satan heard of the disturbance and had his special car backed up 
on (the side-track by the factory, just as the men were coming out. 
He then delivered a most cunningly devised speech on the labor 
question ; just such a speech as plotting politicians delivei among 
the laboring classes of big manufacturing cities. As he stepped out 
on the platform, he must have felt that he was having a rather cool 
reception. An occasional hiss, with a low groan accompaniment, 
swept through the crowds, but Mr. Satan vas him. 

“ Gentlemen, employes, and fellow-citizens of Hell, he began. 
« Let us reason.” Then, with a graceful and deprecating wave of his 
long tail, he leaned over the platform and flung these questions in 
their teeth : “ Are you not as happy as I ? Do you think wealth, 
glory and honor the pathway to the juiciness of joy ? No, no ! 
Health, my fellow-citizens, is all you should ask. Are not your 
livers all right ? Certainly, and, moreover, you have all the cloth¬ 


ing you need. I pay your car-fare. And then think ! Think,, 
loud and deep, how much better off you are than the poor wretches 
working in the cold macaroni mines of Italy ! Ah, yes, think of your 
lot compared to that of the deluded slaves that toil, day by da\, in 
the artificial ice factories of New York City, their blood frozen 
green and their fingers dropping off like icicles! They, fellow- 
citizens, have reason to be unhappy; but you should be as joyful 
and gay as the lambs that frisk adown the sunny slopes of verdant 
pasture grounds. Brace up ! Be men ! Remember you are living- 
in beautiful Hades, where every sign around you is a sign of pros¬ 
perity and plenty. Hades, the ideal suburb of Aew York City, 
with its corner lots all sold; its easy access to all points in the 
United States ; where all is harmony; where the men of social dis¬ 
tinction live next door to the humble and the poor ; where game 
(bats and snakes) is plenty, and the beautiful Styx River lies foie\ei 
rippling at our feet! But above all — the climate it never gets 
too cold here ! ” 

“ Hear ! Hear! ” said a fat man back in the crowd, while 
wringing the sweat out of his handkerchief. “ Right ye are, said 
another. 

After telling them a few funny stories, Mr. Satan ordered the car 
out, and the men went back to work — satisfied. 


oo 







A FEW REMARKS ON THE LABOR QUESTION. 

























































































































HADES UP TO DATE 


.y 


(Ufte Safcj-cKca^ecj-^oao §ianeri*». 


In the midst of this fearful region yawns a spacious valley, in 
the hollow bottom of which stands a huge stage. On this stage can 
be seen the bald-headed-row sinners, dancing earnestly on sharp 
tacks. No hope, no rest they have, save on the one day in the 
month which Mr. Satan gives them for picking the tacks out of 
their feet. Then the merry dance goes on again, while the Devil’s 
minions look on and laugh. They show no evidence of studied 
grace, but each dances in his own peculiar way. Some prefer the 
mazurka step, while others prance around with a kind of schottish 
movement. As I stood on the cliff which answers as the first bal¬ 
cony of this subterranean theater, and looked down on the all-star 
combination, my thoughts turned to the thousands of deluded bald- 
heads on earth, who insist on being skittish and tough, never once 
worrying their heads about the hereafter. Yet, as sure as fate, 
that hereafter will eventually gather them in and wind them up 
for this eternal can-can. 





62 





THE FRONT-ROW BALD-IIEADS, 



















































HADES UP TO DATE 


©Jfte Nan cofio Gaf& !pie coifft a 

High up on the rocky shelf, above a horrible abyss, I found one 
whose fate seemed after all hardly adequate to his great fault. He 
was the man who on earth had practiced the vice of eating pie with 
a knife. Many a time had he sat at a public restaurant table and 
gleefully spaded mince-meat into his mouth with a knife-blade, 
while a host of distressed patrons dropped their cotfee-cups and 
gazed at the spectacle. Also, he used to tuck his napkin around 
under his collar and tie it at the back. In his present situation, 
he stands fastened to the cruel rock by a halter about his neck, while 
just out of reach a throng of merry goblins with pies of every kind 
are venting shrill jeers. An array of tantalizing and voluptuous 
pies it is, but the unfortunate victim will never again environ one 
of the dishes of which he w r as so fond. 



64 

































THE MAN WHO EATS PIE WITH A KNIFE. 






































































































































































HADES UP TO DATE 


(Hfte sKmateur pftofocjrapfteri). 


Along a liigli surface of straight rock, each hung up by a “head¬ 
rest,” were the unfortunate amateur photographers, their forms 
■dangling over a deep but narrow abyss. 

Every hour a demon comes along and takes snap shots, Avith the 
understanding that the victims must look pleasant or be hurled 
down into the chasm, where they go through a terrible developing 
torture. Any one who has had the experience (and who has not ?) 
of trying to look pleasant with the cleats of a “head-rest” digging 
deep into one’s skull, knows what a trying ordeal it is. Kodak 
fiends without number swung above me as I walked along taking 
notes. They did the groaning — the devil did the rest. Sometimes 
1 would reach over playfully from the opposite side of the chasm 
and pull the toe of a gasping mortal, just by way of introduction, 
and then try to draw him out into conversation. But they were 
.little given to talk. 




66 





THE AMATEUR PHOTOGRAPHERS. 




























































































































































































































































































































HADES UP TO DATE 


(Ufte 

1 then descended by a very ragged way into a department which 
is devoted to the punishment of tramps, and which is called in Hell 
the “Retreat for the Tired.” The place was guarded by a burly 
•demon who objected seriously to my entering. Upon my giving 
him a cigar, however, he apologized, and said that il I was writing 
the place up he would be glad to do any favor, and would like to 
have me send him a copy of the paper — which 1 accordingly prom¬ 
ised to do. 

His fury being pacified thus easily, I stepped downward from 
crag to crag, until, upon drawing near the bottom, I discerned 
huge bath-tubs of boiling water, where were being washed the 
thousands of unfortunates who, while on earth, were the itinerant 
victims of that tired feeling and other people’s frivolous bull¬ 
dogs. 

“ Most of these tramps hail from the little, rat-gnawed State of 
New Jersey,” said the burly demon, who had followed me down 




and was making himself quite familiar, evidently thinking he 
would get his picture in the newspaper. “That,” said he, pointing 
to a spot where the ripples spread wide their coils, “ that is the 
soul of Tired Timothy, of Trenton, New Jersey. Yonder is Way¬ 
ward Husk ins, who had a standing reputation of never doing a 
day’s work in his life. That bald brow whereon the snake-feeders 
are dancing ring-around-the-rosy is Pentup Peters, of Duluth, the 
wiliest, wittiest tramp of trampdom.” 

Many more were pointed out to me, whose names I do not now 
call to mind. Some whom I saw were immersed as high as to 
their eye-brows ; others showed nothing but a foot or a freckle. 
Long did I sit and' watch them, as they gulped the muddy lush, 
while the merciless demons would turn the hose on them when 
they least expected it, or pull them out and scrub them. One poor 
tramp, from Akron, who arrived while I was there, fell into a 
swoon on seeing a cake of soap for the first time. It was pathetic. 


68 





THE TRAMPS 








































































































































































































































































































HADES UP TO DATE 



Having successfully surmounted some hindrances and inspected 
the new Incline Railroad, which is now in full working order, I fol¬ 
lowed the direction of a sign-board pointing to the gulf where society 
bores are punished. 

The society bores, and there are many of them in Hell, are not 
having what would be termed on earth “a real glorious time. 
They were all there, however. The man who continually talks 
about himself was there. The man who tries to act funny in com¬ 
pany and makes an indecent fool of himself was there. I he man 
who is always flattering other men’s wives was there. There were 
others, too, all being sat upon bv industrious demons who worked 
diligently and happily, boring deep holes into the poor wretches 
with brace and bit. or post-hole augers. 



70 












ON EARTH. 


THE SOCIETY BORE. 


IN THE SWEET BY-AND-BY, 






















































































































































































HADES UP TO DATE 


<USe Si>ooiLFe 

Hugging the rocky ledge closely, I groped my way to a lower 
plain, where I discovered new torments. Here the boodle aldermen 
are roasted a la mode. Everywhere was great activity. It is said 
that this department exacts more careful attention and employs 
more demons than any other in this region. The large and populous 
Chicago branch was the one that attracted me most; not alone on 
account of its being so extensive, but because I saw many a familiar 
face. 

These boodle aldermen, who, on earth, aver that “ their hearts 
burn with a passionate desire to serve the people,” and then forthwith 
go to serving with impassioned energy any corporation that will 
give up to them, are here shoveled into the separate ovens of a big 
furnace, which winds around the hill in a semicircular arrangement 
similar to that of the desks in the Chicago city council. 

Each sat in his particular oven, not only “burning at the heart 
with love for his constituents,” but burning all over, and swearing 
till the blue air, mixing with the bright red flannels, made a highly 
striking picture. At intervals the aldermen would break out with 


eJAFilermen. 


the remark that if it hadn’t been for the newspapers they would 
not be suffering this injustice. 

Some are tough and some are tender, but the demons spare 
none ; the fat and the lean, the beautiful and the thug-faced, all go 
together in democratic simplicity into this sizzling, broiling barbe¬ 
cue. If, on feeling of the breast-bone of a new arrival, it is found 
that he is uncommonly tough, he goes into the Chicago department, 
as a matter of course. New York City stands next to Chicago in 
furnishing thoroughbred boodlers. Pittsburgh sends some pretty 
bad ones, and I was told that Cleveland, Ohio, had a showing of 
aldermen in Hell that could compete with almost any—not in 
numbers, but in general moral, mental and physical dilapida¬ 
tion. 

On my way out, I passed the furnace where those from Provi¬ 
dence, Rhode Island, were roasted. It was a very sad sight, but 
somehow I did not feel like soiling a new handkerchief with fresh 
tears. Perhaps I felt as the average tax-payer must feel when he 
reads this — that Hades is a good, big joke on the aldermen. 








TIIE BOODLE ALDERMEN. 


















































HADES UP TO DATE 


S^oareUoP-tUraile <S[am6fer<&. 

Now I began to hear below me a terrible noise; the yelling of 
voices deep and hoarse made up a tumult that cleft the Stygian 
darkness like the roaring of a herd of untamed steers. Following 
the direction of the noise, I soon discovered that I was in the 
eternal home of the “ Board-of-Trade Gamblers.” Into huge pits or 
“corners,” as the demons call them, these bulls and bears are 
hurled headlong. There they begin speedily to realize that Mr. 
Satan can run a tight corner himself — a tighter “ corner ” than 
they were ever in, or ever pushed any one else into. No mercy is 
shown them; fifteen deep, they are piled in and squeezed as wet 
clothes are squeezed in a wringing-machine. 

The flames from an adjacent well of natural gas rose high above 
the opposite wall and threw a flickering red light about this depart¬ 
ment, plainly disclosing these animals in all their ribald revelry. 
Looking down the jaws of the pit, I saw, directly below me, a large 
man who seemed so utterly whelmed in woe that “ pity opened the 
floodgates ” of my visage, and I dropped a large, lustrous tear on 
his bald head as a token of my sympathy. 



74 




BOARD OF TRADE GAMBLERS. 
















































































HADES UP TO DATE 


©JSe Si>unfto-e|)teerer<& 

As I was leaviug the Board of Trade gamblers, I looked up and 
saw a tribe of smooth, oily-looking sinners coming down the slope 
and gibbering in low, guttural tones, while a policeman, with a furze 
of whiskers on his chin, cracked a long whip and drove them on 
from the rear. These individuals, I was informed, were the bunko 
steerers. I followed the procession long and faithfully, as a small 
boy will follow an Italian with a bear —not because there is any fun 
in walking, but because there is bound to be a free show. I was 
not disappointed. Climbing a steep hill, the procession halted 
where there was already a howling Wagnerian pandemonium of 
hopeless souls. I mounted to the summit of a small precipice and 
looked over. Running from the top to the bottom of this hill was 
the famous Sand-paper Slide, known all over Hell as the one par¬ 
ticular spot to be avoided if you have on your Sunday clothes. I he 
slide punishment is dealt to bunko-steerers for various reasons. It 
gives the devils a chance to try their own hands at steering, for one 
thing, and it affords them a good deal of enjoyment. And then. 


anil dionficjence Men. 

the sand-paper, being coarse-grained and rough, rubs off that 
smooth, oily way which is a part of the make-up of a successful 
bunko-steerer. 

As they stood in procession, with shivering knees, a demoniac 
policeman would at certain intervals yell “ Next! ” The one fore¬ 
most would then shuffle to the front, where he was given a shove 
which would send him whirling and rasping down the slide at the 
rate of two thousand knots per minute. Those who have rubbed a 
big Bermuda onion on a nutmeg-grater will easily imagine the 
fluency with which the slider wept. 

Farmers from Sangamon County, Illinois, as well as those from 
Essex, New York, Berkshire, Massachusetts, and Ulster County, 
New York, all of whom are noted for the time-honored custom of 
being bunkoed out of their hog-money every time they go to the 
city, will be pleased to hear that there is a place of retribution 
for the bunko-steerer. Indeed, there is played upon him a skin 
game of which he cannot get the combination. 


7G 









BUNKO-sTEEKEKS AND CONFIDENCE MEN. 







































HADES UP TO DATE 


©Jfye £)ofter ^Pa^/er^. 

Inveterate and guileful poker players are stacked up in regular 
rows like poker chips. A section embracing miles and miles of val¬ 
uable real estate in Hades is used for the stacking of these sinners. 

That I might get a good bird’s-eye view of the department, I 
climbed to the summit of one of these mountains of human flesh. 
Twice my efforts to gain the top were baffled, and I fell down the 
howling mass all in a heap. I made a third effort, and this time, by 
taking firm hold of an occasional protruding ear or stout toe, and 
using great caution not to step on a smooth-shaven chin, lest I 
might slip, I succeeded in reaching the top. Then I made a tele¬ 
scope of my hands and looked out over the plain of Pokerdom. And 
what a sight was there, my countrymen ! 

The hot wind was blowing strong. The signs rustling in the 
stacks swung to and fro with the breeze. Just as far as I could see, 
these tangled heaps of humankind reared their lofty peaks to the 
opaque sky, while the bats swung around them and built nests in 
their whiskers. The pile on which I stood heaved and tossed so 
wildly that I thought it best to crawl down and set forward for the 
next department. 


:s 





THE POKER PLAYERS. 


























































































HADES UP TO DATE 


S^antC (Ba^Rier^ ©yv'Ro to danacja. 

I now descended a path leading to the left and sought to explore 
the depth wherein all-searching justice dooms to punishment the 
agile bank cashiers, and all men who have at any time during their 
lives shouldered other men’s boodle and skipped to Canada to 
escape the digits of the law. 

I had not journeyed long over the uncertain steps of stone, 
when, from a sharp turn in the Alp-like slope, I saw fierce tongues 
of flame leaping athwart the distant gloom. The peaks of distant 
mountains showed black against the lurid glare. It was now get¬ 
ting hot. The caloric was intense enough to have fried juice out of 
the Washington monument. 

Looking up, as a wide rift opened in the drifting smoke, I saw, 
beyond, the spirits of the bank cashiers still forever skipping, still 
forever chased by Satan’s private police. On they came, clattering 
like mountain goats, leaping and tumbling from crag to crag, on 
their shoulders big bags of stones, far heavier than any boodle, and 
in their hearts great chunks of sorrow. On and on they skip 
eternally. There is no American detective behind to lose sight of 
them and give them cease of suffering. 


80 







DEFAULTING BANK CASHIERS. 













































































HADES UP TO DATE 


(U^e Men (Sjo ©Ji<*>fiing on ^unilaLj. 

These widely-known sinners are hung up on fish-hooks over a 
boiling lake, where, through the long, hot days, they writhe and 
squirm like fretted fishes jerked from the calm delights of a placid 
pool. Some hung by the ears, others by the back. Another was 
swinging, with unstudied grace, by the heel. Approaching one 
who hung uneasily above, I looked up and asked him whether he 
was sorry he had come. He muttered something about its being no 
sinecure, but as I was about to go away, called me back and asked 
how the fishing was, up around the Mackinac lakes. 

Though at this time well-nigh exhausted with the vicissitudes 
of my journey, I kept right on, bound to see everything. Some 
people, as I could plainly see, were going to stand this thing 
throughout eternity. I ought to be able to hold on for at least 
one day. 



32 





THE HEN WHO GO FISHING ON SUNDAY. 










































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































HADES UP TO DATE 


©Jfie QuaciC ©ocford). 

The sewers of Ilades are flushed with patent medicines. TV al¬ 
lowing in this stream of mysterious decoction are the souls of the 
quack doctors, gulping their own medicines. To add to the pun¬ 
ishment, unceasing showers of large pills descended, the doctors 
frantically beating the air in their endeavors to ward off the bitter 
storm. 

I saw many whose portraits once adorned the advertising columns 
of the daily press, but they slunk away on seeing me as a water-rat 
seeks the darkness of the mud-bank. One of them, who had been 
trying to gnaw a free lunch out of the head of a rival, looked up 
while I stood on the rock above them, wiped his mustache on the 
other fellow's head and cried out: “Say, did you ever take any¬ 
thing for it?” “For what?” I asked. “Why, man, you’ve got 
the billichrimer faundietrix of the pulmonary pusmadrocks.” 
“Thanks,” said I, and walked off. I don’t know just what the 
little billichrimer malady may be, but if I have it, it will probably 
be trouble enough of itself, without being complicated with patent 
medicines. 


84 




THE QUACK DOCTORS 









































































































































HADES UP TO DATE 


(Ufte ^ce-©eafer<S). 

As, oppressed by the gloom and terror, I wandered down into 
the fearsome pit beneath the “Female Department,” with my eyes 
still fixed upon the lofty battlements and heart thumping against 
my ribs, I heard a weird, sepulchral voice ring out: “Say, mister, 
lift your feet!” I turned and saw before and underneath me a 
lake whose frozen surface seemed like glass. As frogs peep croaking 
above the wave, so these poor spirits, blue, pinched and frigid, 
stood shrined in ice. At the side a perpendicular wall of ice arose, 
as a bank rises at a river’s side. From this wall, also, there peered 
heads whose chattering teeth sounded like the monotonous music of 
horse-fiddles. Walking on a space, I found at my feet one who 
seemed completely wrapped up in woe. He lifted his head with a 
blood-freezing crackle of the neck-joint. I stooped low and sympa¬ 
thetically asked him if his name was “Mudd.” He said it was. 
Oscar Elihu Mudd, of Omaha, lie was an ex-ice-dealer who, 
aside from his present misfortunes, had met with a terrible disaster 
while a mortal of the upper world. By mistake he one day sold a 
small and crystalline chunk of ice for a diamond. lie figured out 
that his losses from this transaction alone were enough punishment, 
to say nothing of a life sentence to Hades. 

I began to see that I would have a case of chilblains to nurse if I 
didn’t hurry from the place. So I skated out. All these unhappy 
creatures were ice-dealers who brought little chunks of ice to their 
customers and made them pay three times too much. 


8G 







ICE-DEALERS AND COLD, CRABBED BUSINESS MEN. 






































































































































































































©Jfte ^ventueft^/ Gofonefi). 


Down in a gloomy vale, where the hot, miasmatic breeze rankles 
in your nostrils like the breath of a Behemoth cow that has had 
bran-mash and onions for supper, I discovered the Kentucky colo¬ 
nels. I take no credit for the discovery. Any one who visits 
Ilades and fails to run against officers from the blue-grass country 
must be an expert dodger. And here they were : up on the mount¬ 
ain sides, down in the chasms, everywhere — writhing, cavorting 
and galloping. Each colonel has ten snakes, five for each boot. 
These snakes are his jjermanent property. In case any snake does 
get old and lazy and loses his grip, the demon overseer will yell, 
“More snakes!” and immediately another hodful is sent up from 
below. 

While standing on the side of a high cliff, making sketches and 
taking notes of this vast plain, there came crawling swiftly up the 
steep a keen-eyed colonel, attended by his ten devoted serpents. I 
was about to faint, but changed my mind. Fainting in Ilades is 
not advisable. Dante made his great mistake when he fainted. 
“ Say, young fellow ! ” said the Colonel, as I started to hippity-hop 
up the slope as if I didn’t care, “got a chew about you ? ” But a 
lump in my throat prevented my answering, and I hurried on. 










THE KENTUCKY COLONELS. 


Kg •'nT-Ai 

















































































































































































































































































































HADES UP TO DATE 


(Hfte ©Jaf-iJrijincj ©epartmenf £or Monopofi^fil). 


The horrible scenes witnessed at every turn now began to 
unnerve me. As a fluttering feather drops to lowland from the 
weary wing of the jim-crow wheeling over the mountain crest, so 
my heart sank lower and lower, with my reason barely clutching 
the edge of her throne. 

Aroused by the heavy boom of a gas-pipe bursting on the oppo¬ 
site hill, I arose and pushed on my way, presently finding myself in 
the midst of the great fat-frying industries of this region. Seated 
in huge frying-pans, the monopolists vainly fan themselves, while 
the slow, eternal fires gradually fry the fat out of them. I passed 
slowly in front of them as they sat there, sizzling and sputtering 
and perspiring blood. They eyed me sharply, evidently wonder¬ 
ing how I happened to be there in the garb of earthly mortals. 
One steaming soul, before whom I halted, wiped his brow with a 
bandanna and asked me if I could tell him what “Union Pacific” 
was quoted at. I told him I did not know, whereat he seemed very 
sad. Then, the heat becoming more intense, his corpulent person 
flopped in the pan, head down, as pop-corn jumps with the heat. 

Walking on apace and wondering how a little facetiousness 
would strike the unfortunates, I asked one of the number, who was 
already done quite brown, if it was “ hot enough ” for him. It did 
not work. Immediately a score or more of demons shot down from 
the black sky, and, grappling me with a hook, hurled me down a 
deep chasm, a distance of several hundred feet. 

Exploring Hell has its drawbacks. This was one of them. 



90 









THE MONOPOLISTS. 


















































































































































































































































HADES UP TO DATE 


(Ufte Minif&ferA. 


Standing in an abyss where steam and smoke drifted thick on 
all sides, my ear caught the sound of strange, metallic mutterings 
seemingly coming from a distance. But looking up, I saw a sight 
that made me stand aghast. There, right before me, along the 
barren rock, sat a brood of pensive souls crouching before an endless 
row of phonographs. 

“Sermons I used to inflict on the public,” was the inscription 
placarded on each machine. 

In front of them there passed every few moments an industrious 
demon with a contribution hat. 

It needed no reference to my guide-book to place these unhappy 
people — the ministers who never know when their congregations 
have had enough. 



92 













THEY FAILED TO PRACTICE WnAT THEY PREACHED 









































































































































































































































HADES UP TO DATE 


(IJfte pugiPi^r^). 


From the other side of a ridge of rock, to which I now came, 
there issued sounds of loud snorting, varied by an occasional thud 
like unto the fall of a large ham on a pavement. Passing up the 
way, I looked over and saw the mode of punishment that Judge 
Minos, in his severest mood, metes out to the professional pugilist. 
The sluggers were holding glove contests with the most powerful of 
the demons. Some of them fought vigorously for a moment, hut 
in the end they all succumbed. As the demons wore gloves 
covered with short iron spurs and the pugilists had only the regula¬ 
tion mitten, with eight ounces of padding, the contests were rather 
one-sided. 

One pugilist was receiving particularly heavy punishment. 
“ Who is that unfortunate ? ” I asked. “ Some one who has fought 
innumerable times?” “No,” replied one of the demons. “He 
didn’t fight at all. He just issued challenges.” 



94 






THE PUGILISTS. 



































































































































































































































































































































































HADES UP TO DATE 


(Hfte (sfiror^ic J^iclCer^. 

While reading, by the light of a natural-gas well, the concise 
little “Tourist’s Guide” given me by Mr. Satan, I became aware of 
a constant, muffled rumbling, as of some ponderous machinery. 
At regularly recurrent intervals the rumbling was broken by a loud 
swat, which sounded like a man spanking a large cheese with a 
scoop-shovel. 

Walking over in the direction of the sound, I found myself in 
the department where the “ Chronic Kickers ” reap the bitter 
reward of their pessimistic lives. The mechanical kickiug-machines 
used here are perhaps the most ingenious labor-saving devices in 
Hades. Each machine is so constructed that it resembles a huge 
mule ; eiglity-two of these mules constitute one large machine. 
Each mule is capable of getting in seventy-six kicks per minute ; 
and the entire force at work has a capacity of G,232 kicks every 
sixty seconds. 

It was an impressive sight. The “Chronic Kickers” were 
6wnng off a high precipice and allowed to hang down just far 
enough to get the brunt of the mules’ heels as they swung up. At. 

'T'-r ••' r ' 

a distance, it looked not unlike a new kind of tennis game. 

. -1 . 


> 


9C 





THE CHRONIC KICKERS 
























































































































































































































HADES UP TO DATE 


In the later stages of my weird journey I had begun to grow 
aweary of darkness. Now I pined for the light of the upper world. 

A big, brawny demon with a forked tail and a noisy respiration, 
like the sniffle of a captive boar, stood in the path as I shambled 
toward the elevator. 1 passed behind him, hoping I would not be 
seen. As a windmill’s wheels veer at a sudden gust of air, he 
turned and swooped upon me. I cowered in the darkness of the 
rock, but he caught me quite easily. 

A strong hand clutched my coat collar. There was a convulsive 
jerk, a sound of hissing air-brakes and a general commotion 
around me. 

“ Get olf ! ” I screamed, and then a terrific shake unsettled the 
lethargy, and, opening my eyes, I saw the conductor standing 
over me. 

“ All out for Chicago ! ” 

“ Chicago ! ” said I. “ Great Sardanapalus ! I thought this was 

II—1.” 


9a 





> » 


ONE OF MR. SATAN’S BOUNCERS. 








































































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